


Your Eyes, My Heavenly Lights

by novelogical (writingmonsters)



Category: The Alienist (TV), The Alienist - Caleb Carr
Genre: Established Relationship, Excessive Use of Heinrich Heine Poetry, I GUESS IT'S FLUFF, M/M, Marriage Is What Brings Us Together Today, Marriage Proposal, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 01:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16609661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/pseuds/novelogical
Summary: “Would you -- Laszlo Kreizler -- take me, John Schuyler Moore, to be your husband?” Earnest and shining-eyed, John kisses Laszlo’s knuckles, presses them to his brow in benediction. “I swear to love you and torment you and to give my heart to you alone for as long as it beats in this world.”“You’re a fool,” Laszlo whispers. But he cannot help himself -- there is champagne coursing in his blood, giddy and brilliant, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.John grins, unashamed. “I am.” He strokes his thumb against the fluttering pulse-point in Laszlo’s wrist. “Will you say yes?”





	Your Eyes, My Heavenly Lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JotunVali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JotunVali/gifts).



> Okay, so during the Georgian period, starting in the late 1700s, there was this fantastic trend of "lover's eye" portraits that were literally just little portraits of your beloved's eye, so that only you and your romantic other knew the identity and it was all very scandalous and clandestine and romantic. Alas, this trend kind of died out before John and Laszlo's time, but I am nothing if not a finagler of facts.
> 
> It's 1 am. I am very tired. I apologize for any misspellings, but "Laszlo" doesn't even look like a word anymore.

If ever there were a moment worth capturing -- an hour that deserved to be preserved for an eternity -- John thinks this is it. Autumn has set the New York skyline alight with red and gold coronas, has given the air teeth to bite. In the parlor of 283 East 17th Street, there is a slow fire that cracks and smolders in the grate, the last of the afternoon sunshine just starting to slip away. He has installed himself in the high-backed armchair, drawing kit balanced on his knee, to capture the best of the light from the window as he sketches. On the divan, tucked up among his scattered papers and stacks of books, Laszlo is buried in his book.

John smudges a delicate line into his sketch, capturing the faint crease of a frown between Laszlo’s eyebrows, traces the curve of his spectacles to accentuate the roundness of his face. Impossible to capture the rapid tracking of his eyes, though, the way they all but give off sparks as Laszlo skims his way rapidly across the pages.

He is almost nose-to-binding with the book, so deeply absorbed in scowling at the text that it takes a glancing blow from the well-aimed India rubber eraser to rouse him. “What do you _want_ , John?”

“You look so serious,” John informs him, warm with fondness as he tucks away his pencil. Folds up the drawing kit. “What is it you’re reading that makes you frown so much?”

“Durkheim. _The Rules of Sociological Method_.”

“And does Durkheim have anything interesting to say?”

John does not have the slightest interest in Durkheim’s opinions or sociology in general, but as Laszlo sets the book aside, marking his page, he can see the light of thoughts coalescing behind the bright brown eyes -- an impending lecture taking form. This -- Laszlo animated and passionate and sparkling with ideas when he speaks -- this is what John loves. Laszlo expounds on his theories, picks apart bits of inspiration using John as the sounding board, the canvas on which he can project and dissect and consider, talking himself through each new angle and fact to incorporate.

“Durkheim takes the argument that, unlike philosophy or psychology, the objects of sociological study are social facts and -- because they are facts -- objectivity must be retained and the scientific method applied as in the case of other exact science. Biology, chemistry, et cetera --”

Rising smoothly from the armchair, John cuts him off, dropping a kiss to the crown of the alienist’s head as he searches the crowded divan, the side tables stacked high with books. _It was here just the other day_ … “That’s all well and good -- aha!” Plucking the slim, cloth-bound volume from the stack, he thumbs through the pages triumphantly. “But perhaps a change to soften that frown of yours; I feel a headache coming on just looking at you.”

It is Heinrich Heine. A volume of poems neatly printed in German, the pages marked up and annotated in Laszlo’s narrow hand -- many of the verses translated into neatly-rhymed English by his own efforts.

“Now, here,” John prods the page with Laszlo’s neatly penned translations. The alienist shines up at him; curious ocher eyes and the faint mischief of a smile curling on his lips that sets a giddy joyfulness suffusing through John’s blood. “This is a good one.” And he begins to read, pitching the timbre of his voice, summoning all of the grave emotion and melody in him as though performing before a grand audience. “ _The old dream comes again to me: With May-night stars above, We two sat under the linden-tree And swore eternal love_.”

This is their secret. John, foolish and adoring teasing tender smiles from Laszlo -- the kind of smiles that dimple his cheeks, soften his keen eyes. Eliciting fond, quiet laughter. The pads of Laszlo’s fingers trailing the seam of John’s waistcoat. The last of the sunshine fading beyond the window to gather in their eyes.

“ _Again and again we plighted troth, We chattered, and laughed, and kissed_.”

John swoops down then, theatrical, pressing Laszlo into the deep cushions of the divan, feeling the heat of the flush that still rises to the alienist’s cheeks. John grasps his hand, tangling their fingers as he recites.

“ _To make me well remember my oath You gave me a bite on the wrist_.” His eyes never waver from Laszlo -- the glitter of his eyes, the fragile parting of his lips -- as John draws their joined hands between them. Sinks his teeth lightly into the pale, tender flesh where Laszlo’s shirtsleeve slides upward.

A soft, pleased hiss -- half a warning. John kisses the spot in silent apology.

“ _O darling with the eyes serene, And with the teeth so white_ !” John lays the volume of Heine across the back of the divan then, crawling up Laszlo’s front until they are nose-to-nose. “ _The vows were proper to the scene, Superfluous was the bite_.”

He steals a proper kiss then, pressing smile to teasing smile. Laszlo hums, chases him when he pulls away.

It is rare as hen’s teeth, to see Laszlo Kreizler grin. John has made it his mission, in these private hours they steal together, to see Laszlo smile as often as he can.

“ _You_ ,” says Laszlo, wearing the beatific, mischievous grin as he draws himself up to peck another kiss against John’s lips “are _absurd_.”

John hooks a finger beneath his chin, traces the curve of Laszlo’s lower lip; unbearably fond. “ _I_ am in _love_.” And because the world is cruel to lovers, he catches sight of the grandfather clock’s handsome ivory face beyond Laszlo’s head. Mocking him. “Damn,” he drops his head onto Laszlo’s sturdy chest “and I’m also going to be late. Gran will be thrilled.”

With a wry, amused twist to his mouth, Laszlo shifts his good arm to push John off. “Has she found you another eligible society lady to torment this evening?” He is careful not to let John hear the wary, uncertain question underneath. _Is this where you leave me at last?_

“No.” John chuckles, straightening his cravat as he stands. “I fear she has finally accepted that there is nothing for it.” He puts on his most despairing face for effect, throws his arms wide to encompass the tragedy of it. “I am a confirmed bachelor, Laszlo.”

Laszlo proclaims -- dry as dust -- “welcome to the ranks.” John Moore, a man unwilling to trap himself in marriage with a single partner. Laszlo Kreizler, a man too married to his work to ever find a woman. The facades served them well. “Now, off with you, you lummox.”

A final, parting kiss, a brush of fingers, and John finds himself disappearing down 17th Street, Laszlo still a ghost against his tingling lips.

They had lived together before -- in their university days, when they were young and fragile and full of things to prove. He hadn’t realized it then, but John had been in love already with the fresh-faced German psychology student who had tried even then to fight the world.

It wouldn’t be unheard of, if they were to live together. A pair of confirmed bachelors and long-time friends sharing company -- they certainly would not be the first. There were those who whispered rumors of Laszlo’s peculiar nature, speculated as to his taste in bedfellow -- they might talk. But John’s years slumming through the New York brothels served them well enough now, a cast-iron alibi against those who might question the true nature of their relationship.

No. It wouldn’t be so impossible, to live together, to love together properly -- no more stolen private hours and clandestine moments laced with private meaning.

_We two sat under the linden-tree_

_And swore eternal love._

They loved each other; that was certain. It was there in the quiet moments and in the soft breaths between them together beneath the bedcovers and in every small touch and lingering glance and even in their arguments and acerbic, frustrated words.

But it was one thing to say it -- to whisper it to one another, press the words into soft skin and speak the words in privacy. John wanted to shout it from the rooftops, wanted all of New York City to know.

_The vows were proper to the scene_

_Superfluous was the bite._

He still has the ring, pressed surreptitiously into his palm beneath the table at Delmonico’s. Mary’s ring. In it’s jeweler’s box, the little circlet presides over John’s dressing table -- a promise. A question for him to turn over and over between his fingers, contemplating the risk, the hope that squeezes tight within his heart.

 _“This was for Mary.”_ Dear, beloved Mary -- John imagines an understanding between the pair of them. _I will take care of him, since you cannot. I will love him, since you are gone._ He is certain that she must have known, sharp as she was, must have seen something of his private, budding love for Kreizler even then. _“I hope you’ll find someone you can give it to.”_

John cannot imagine anyone else.

He finds himself paging again through his drawing kit, lighting on the recent sketches of Laszlo -- the cross-hatch curvature of a cheek caught half in shadow, the stubborn smudge of concentration between his eyebrows as he read, the slender fingers, the hint of a smile secreted in his beard.

There are older sketches, secreted safely in a box at the bottom of his wardrobe. A curl of hair come loose across a stern brow. The soft fan of eyelashes across a cheekbone. Dark, round irises gazing upward, mirrored behind the round spectacles.

Laszlo, captured in varying degrees and details -- forever caught in a moment, a fragment on the thick drawing paper.

_O darling with the eyes serene._

John had seen portraits before -- lover’s eyes -- tokens of affection, scandalous in their intimacy. Anonymous to all except the wearer. Small, perfect paintings; the eye, the brow, at most a stray lock of hair curling at the edge of the portrait.

He traces the blunt edge of his thumbnail along the curve of a half-shuttered eyelid. Laszlo slack-limbed and sleepy in the bed beside him, curled against his chest. Another, deeply shadowed by the plummeting of a sharp, scowling brow. A third eye soft, crinkling finely at the corners with the hints of a smile.

It is a foolhardy idea -- a dangerous liberty to take. And yet, John finds himself with two small, perfect pieces of ivory the size of coins, laying down watercolor with fine, delicate brushstrokes in the privacy of his room for as long as the light will last him. He ignores Harriet, is brusque to his grandmother who demands to know what has gotten into him.

“A commission,” he tells her. “A special illustration I’m working on -- I need to concentrate.”

He stares into the shaving mirror until his eyes water, turning the angle this way and that, searching for just the right color, the exact shape. His own eye stares up at him from the little ivory oval, curious, unhesitating.

In the hours spent with Laszlo, he lingers too long in his gazes, focused on the way his wide brown eyes change tone -- how they seem at times to glow like embers and then turn dark as umber. This is Laszlo lit by love. This is Laszlo dazzling with laughter. This is Laszlo muted, contemplative.

This is Laszlo, suspicious -- his eyes deep chestnut, assessing John with a clinician’s sharpness. “You are not yourself, John.” And there is the faintest hint of worry to his tone, an uncertainty that has John stumbling out excuses and reassurances. “You seem -- on edge.”

John thinks the waiting will nearly kill him; every moment he is with Laszlo he wants to ask, wants to spill the truth out before him and shout adorations. But he holds his tongue, waits the week it takes for the jeweler to meet his specifications -- and what a harrowing experience that had been; stammering out his demands, insistent on the particularities.

“A commission,” he had claimed, the same excuse presented to his grandmother. And, when they had looked too long at the second piece -- the eye that was too good a likeness to disown when held against his face -- “and a _personal_ project as well. For a friend.” He leaves them to their own assumptions, but lets the charm of his quick wink say plenty.

He arranges it all, plans the words, sends round the invitation -- more a demand -- for Laszlo to dine with him at Delmonico’s that night. John soars with exhilaration, ties his insides into knots with panic, on his way to Laszlo.

The package is heavy in his pocket. The icon beneath his shirt, secure in the silver locket, burns against his skin.

Everything feels dangerous -- the golden light, the crystal chandeliers, the clink of silverware and low conversation. John fidgets. Twists his hands. Turns the small, wrapped package over and over in his pocket. Insists “a private table, if you please, Charlie” too quickly and too loud when the proprietor appears.

“Of course, Mister Moore.”

John tugs at his cravat. Feels the weight of Laszlo’s suspicious eyes, mahogany-dark and unreadable tonight, heavy between his shoulder blades as they are led through the gold-washed dining room.

The requests are made. John shifts. Clears his throat. Fights down the words that wish to burst out of him. Struggles not to reach across the table and take Laszlo’s face into his hands, to kiss him on the mouth in the middle of the restaurant and make his proclamation then and there. He fumbles his way stupidly through vague conversation, hardly aware of the words that tumble from his own lips -- too focused on Laszlo who does not say word, who sits with his shoulders drawn tight, and the set of his mouth grim like he is awaiting his own execution.

What is happening?

It is only when their plates arrive that Laszlo, still unwilling to look him in the eye, addresses the soup and shallots. Proclaiming with a dangerous, waspish edge to his casually urbane tone, “I should think, John, that you would do me the courtesy of not thinking me a fool.”

John is certain his heart plummets from his rib cage -- his pulse trips, stutters over panicked heartbeats. How did he know? It’s all tit’s up, gone horribly wrong. And in the rush of adrenaline he leans toward Laszlo, insisting “never. Laszlo, I never -- I…”

“Then let us be candid with one another.” And there are the dark, umber eyes at last as Laszlo lays aside his cutlery. Resigned, sharp with hurt. “Who is she?”

For a moment, the words do not even register -- _who is she_? Completely meaningless in John’s ears. The shock of it, when it hits him, nearly knocks him from his seat.

“She _who_?!”

Laszlo can’t be serious?!

“Your fiancee,” Laszlo says mildly, as though it is the most obvious thing in the world. He washes down the words with a swallow of the white wine, but John is not quite so stupid, so oblivious that he does not hear the way the alienist’s mellifluous voice struggles around the words, fights the shape of them. “You’ve come to your senses, yes? Perhaps your Grandmother’s matchmaking efforts have not been quite so in vain after all?”

 _Oh darling_ , John reels. _Laszlo, you’re wrong -- for once in your life you’re so damned wrong_. But all sense seems to have left him, all capacity for speech; John is so shocked -- that Laszlo could even think...

“What the devil are you on about?!”

Laszlo’s eyes slide away then, the worried, miserable crease of a frown forming between his brows. “You are kind, John -- but there is no need to pretend. I had not expected…” He forces a soft, faint sound like a laugh from his throat. Oh, but he had. Fool that he was. He had imagined -- had hoped and dreamed and loved and had trusted his fragile, battered heart to John, laid bare and broken as it was.

And John sees the way he shrinks into himself across the expanse of their private, corner table, is sharply aware of the way he begins to shatter -- the heavy wetness gathering on his lower lashes, the curses and self-recriminations flashing across his dark, dark eyes.

This isn’t what he meant.

“Oh Christ -- Laszlo, for the love of…” Numb-fingered and frantic, John scrabbles in his pocket for the little, carefully wrapped package with the delicate silver ring knotted carefully into the ribbon. “This isn’t how I’d wanted to do this. You damned fool,” and his own voice breaks, overcome by the terrible, devastating thought. “You think I would leave you now?”

“John.”

Concealed beneath the table, John slips the package into Laszlo’s lap, knocks it twice against the alienist’s knee -- insistent -- before the slim fingers fumble for it, find the shape of the box. The ring tucked into John’s carefully knotted bow.

John knows the moment Laszlo realizes, watches with his heart in his mouth as the alienist stills. Scarcely breathes. A fine tremor passes through Laszlo, rattling his breath from his lips -- eyes wide with shock when he lifts his gaze slowly, achingly slowly from his lap to stare at John. Uncomprehending.

“You said you’d hoped I would find someone to give it to. I did.” And John, who has already taken too many liberties in plain view, where any of the restaurant patrons might see, takes another; closes the space between them to cover Laszlo’s hand with his own. “I have.”

And Laszlo is unraveling before him, coming apart at the seams. He stammers out breathless words, vacant-eyed and half-caught in the tangle of his own racing thoughts -- how is this possible? Can it really be happening? John cannot be serious. This is all some terrible, cruel misunderstanding… “ _Ich glaub, mein Schwein pfeift_ … this cannot…” Laszlo shakes himself. “We cannot do this here.”

John is already on his feet, guiding Laszlo up and out of the chair. “There, were are in complete agreement.” Dinner is left untouched. Their coats nearly forgotten. By some miracle, they find a cab, bundle themselves inside.

_It isn’t possible. It can’t be._

Laszlo turns the package over and over in his hands. Touches the pads of his fingers to the ring -- Mary’s ring -- that he had never expected… The crush of emotion is a fist around his heart, a knot in his throat, and he wants to weep and to throw his arms around John and kiss him until they cannot breathe and he wants to scream and wail and flee all at once.

“Don’t open it.” John captures his good hand, forcing him into stillness. Squeezes once. _Laszlo, Laszlo, Laszlo -- don’t you understand how much I love you?_ “Not yet.”

Laszlo is out of the cab at 283 East 17th Street almost before the wheels can stop rolling, hauling John by his lapels up the steps. He is half-wild, ferocious, and the instant they are assured of the click of the lock, he whirls on John -- brandishing the package -- and the twilight catches the tears that glitter in his eyes, the terror ill-concealed on his face.

“What is this?” He speaks quietly, every word enunciated carefully even as his voice shakes. There can be no misunderstandings here.

“I know,” John grimaces, suddenly embarrassed. It is hopelessly inadequate. He’s done this all wrong. But how to court in secret, and to court another _man_ no less? Especially a man like Laszlo Kreizler. “It’s not exactly in style these days -- it isn’t the done thing, but I thought… Well,” hope is a bright, tremulous thing in his heart. “I had hoped…”

The tear of paper -- a sound that seems to echo in the darkened foyer. An unwrapping that takes an eternity.

“ _John_.”

Laszlo trembles visibly, cradling in his careful, steady hands the betrothal ring with all its promise and all its hope, and John’s own machination; the miniature -- John’s burnished golden eye set into a silver locket. The face is simple, yet elegant, the chain sturdy.

“I thought…” John shrugs, faintly helpless. “Instead of rings. We already eschew so many conventions -- what’s one more?”

And, reaching beneath the layers of his own waistcoat and shirt, John draws out the second miniature on its own bronzed chain. Laszlo’s eye -- soft and serious and glittering with keen intelligence. A painstaking labor to match just the right shade of umber.

With hesitating, wary fingers Laszlo reaches out, traces the fragment of his likeness still warm from John’s skin. And all at once he understands -- but he can’t imagine…

And --

“It isn’t possible.” Laszlo shakes his head once, his voice soft with disbelief. There are a hundred thousand excuses, reasons why this cannot happen, why John cannot possibly go through with this. “The Law. The Church. You can’t reasonably think…”

“To hell with it, Laszlo.” And John means it -- passionate, fierce. He would throw everything else away in an instant, if it meant that Laszlo would understand. “To hell with all of it -- _marry me._ Not in the eyes of God or the law, but in our _own_ eyes.” He sinks to his knee, in the middle of the foyer, half in darkness, capturing Laszlo’s hand in his own.

Laszlo makes a wounded, ragged noise.

“Would you -- Laszlo Kreizler -- take me, John Schuyler Moore, to be your husband?” Earnest and shining-eyed, John kisses Laszlo’s knuckles, presses them to his brow in benediction. “I swear to love you and torment you and to give my heart to you alone for as long as it beats in this world.”

“You’re a fool,” Laszlo whispers. But he cannot help himself -- there is champagne coursing in his blood, giddy and brilliant, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

John grins, unashamed. “I am.” He strokes his thumb against the fluttering pulse-point in Laszlo’s wrist. “Will you say yes?”

A hesitation. “John, are you certain? I cannot…” _I cannot do that to you, not in good conscience._ He does not say it, swallows down the words. _I cannot give you what you deserve._ Laszlo knows the sum of his parts, and they amount to a tragedy. Wreckage. “You know what I am -- _who_ I am. You do not want to bind yourself to me for a lifetime.”

“And yet, here I am, trying to do just that.”

John, still kneeling before Laszlo in askance, considers him for a moment, as though appraising. Laszlo watches the light and dark illuminations of his face shift and play as the illustrator cants his head, and does not dare to breathe.

“You’re right, Laszlo,” John says. “I know exactly who you are, and I love you for it -- moods and stubbornness and everything that comes with you.” He smooths another kiss over Laszlo’s knuckles. “Your kindness. Your brilliance.” Unfolding the trembling, tightly fisted hand, he lays a kiss against the open palm, leans his cheek -- stubble-rough -- in Laszlo’s hand. “I would not have you any other way.”

“John.” The quiet plea catches in his throat. “I’m afraid…” And that is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Laszlo Kreizler is deeply, terribly afraid. It is a great and terrible risk to take, and if the results prove to be disaster, Laszlo knows in his marrow that it will kill him. He could not survive the heartache.

And John, with his effusive golden eyes, sees right through him. Somehow always has in all the ways that have mattered. “As am I, Laszlo,” he soothes, flowing smoothly to his feet, taking Laszlo into his arms. “I know it’s madness --”

There will be no more hesitations.

“ _Yes_.” Laszlo makes his choice, kisses John quick and fierce -- a hard, clumsy press of lips and fingers fisted in lapels.

“You mean it.” John laughs against his yielding mouth, sags with an unexpected relief. “You truly mean it -- you will marry me, then?”

Laszlo kisses his jaw, feather-light, slipping the miniature locket over his own head to catch the twin pendants where they fall together between their breasts. “I will. For all the days of my life, you will have me.” And he leans into John, the pair of them shoring each other up, holding one another together. “It cannot be official, though. No one can know.”

“We will know.” John skims a hand over Laszlo’s soft hair, knots his fingers into the over-long beginnings of curls at the nape of his neck. “That’s all that matters. It will remain between the pair of us and God in Heaven and go no further.”

Laszlo snorts then, reciting softly into the hairsbreadth between them “ _Ich glaub nicht an den Himmel, Wovon das Pfäfflein spricht_ .” There is familiar, tender mischief in his eyes when he glances up at John, tracing the pad of his thumb over the surface of the miniature. His wedding gift. “ _I only trust your eyes now, They’re my heavenly lights_.”

Heine. John has heard him read this poem before, but never like this -- never with such gravity in his voice, such quiet emotion infused behind the words. Said like a prayer. Like a promise. His hands slip from Laszlo’s shoulders, skimming over the swell of his ribs to settle at his waist.

With eyes unwavering, John guides them in a half-waltz through to the parlor -- their sanctuary -- and Laszlo gazes up at him, entranced, reciting softly.

“ _I don’t believe in God above, Who gets the preacher’s nod_ .” Laszlo’s knees hit the divan and he buckles, lets John ease his way, lay him out. His eyes shine. Between them there are waistcoats discarded and buttons undone, warm inches of skin revealed. And Laszlo continues to recite the musical rise-and-fall from memory, the words burning on his lips. “ _I only trust in your heart now, And have no other god_.”

John will not break this spell. These are marriage vows, if ever he has heard any.

“ _I don’t believe in Devils, In hell or hell’s black art_ .” The locket gleams, burnished silver in the moonlight, against Laszlo’s bare chest. Its twin, a pendulum swinging from John’s neck, dips down to meet it. “ _I only trust your eyes now, And your devil’s heart_.”

To hell with the Catholic Church or the Protestant Church or the eyes of the law -- there seems nothing more binding, more holy than this ceremony. The marriage that has happened here.

In the low slivers of moonlight, John’s eyes gleam. “A devil’s heart, hm?” His grin is a wicked slice through the shadows to belay the terrible fondness that threatens to burst within his chest.

“Most assuredly.” In his arms, Laszlo glows. “Husband.”

“ _Husband_.”


End file.
